


when we want to

by theadamantdaughter



Series: Thirty Days of Zutara 2018 [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M, Zutara, Zutara Month 2018, edits, with a Snippet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 20:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadamantdaughter/pseuds/theadamantdaughter
Summary: a series of instagram edits, featuring two vigilantes who fall in love; social media twist on blutara





	1. vigilantes; part one

**Author's Note:**

> this won't be a fic, but i'm crossposting here due to the dangers of tumblr (and their deleting rampage).
> 
> fyi: you can find my new tumblr at tatkresiwok.tumblr.com

“We could work together,” he supplies, quiet, raspy tone blending in with the patter of rain.   


“And why would we do that?”   


The dark-clothed man steps towards her, her opposite in every way; her cocky, violent counterpart. “We make something of a great team. When we want to.” 

She studies his lithe frame in the alleyway, his blue mask in the moonlight, the swords bound to his back, steel gleaming and sharp. Such an odd choice — _hadn’t he learned not to bring knives to a gun fight?_ But who is she to critique his weaponry, when each and every one of his assaults against Caldera Industries had proven successful? 

His point is clear. She accepts.

“You’ll follow me, then. _Spirit._ ” 


	2. vigilantes; part two

A short cry leaves her, fingers pressed against the wound in her side. 

“You’ll be okay,” he says. “You’re going to be alright. I can—” He sounds far more panicked than she feels, scrambling around his haphazard apartment for gauze, then rubbing alcohol, then tweezers and a sewing kit. “I can fix this. I’ll—” 

She covers his hand with her own, stills the tremor there. “You’ll fix it. I’ll be fine.” 

But even as she says it, her body shivers with the telltale signs of shock. And, the man whose face she’s never seen, but voice she’s come to love, offers her a bottle of vodka and lays her down slowly. 

“You’ll make it,” is the last thing she hears. “You have to.”   


—

She wakes with a start. 

Every part of her hurts, starting near her hip and radiating through her limbs. But, something soothing, something constant, wraps around her, and she welcomes awareness slowly, eyes adjusting to the cool dark. 

He looks so peaceful in sleep, scar and all. 


	3. hidden identities; part one

Call it unexpected. Call it unplanned. Call it foolish or silly or stupid. No word of caution is heeded. Nothing stops them. Their identities are to remain secret; their private lives, separate. And yet, she entangles herself with him, allows his heart to crash into hers and consume every free thought. 

The vigilante. The Blue Spirit. 

_Her_ Zuko. 

Against their own warnings, they fall together, fall in bed, fall into lust, then, love. Breaking their own promises, they protect each other, seek out the other, love one another. She didn’t ask for this. She never wanted it. Certainly not with her partner-in-crime, but now she has it; _him._

“You look like you belong here,” she says one morning, having crept up behind him in her apartment’s small bathroom. 

At the sound of her voice alone, tension drops from his shoulders, his entire demeanor relaxes, and whatever stressors they may face melt away like dew on a summer’s day. He turns around with a smile bright enough to set her aflame.

“I belong with you.” 


	4. hidden identities; part two

She squeals as they tumble down, the high wearing off with stuttering heartbeats and laborious gasps. Her fingers trail down his stomach, following the pebbles of sweat that settle in the grooves of his abdomen. 

“We’ll have to tell them eventually,” she hums, burrowing closer to shut out the sounds of the party. Sneaking away together — at her brother’s twenty-fifth, no less — is right up among their worst ideas yet, but she can’t claim any concern over it.  


Her lover agrees. His laughter is a gentle cadence. “Do we, though? Everything is perfect like this, untouched and… ours, alone.” 

“Telling them doesn’t mean I’ll share you. This will still be ours.”   


He considers it, with an adorable tilt of his head and a leg hitching over her hips. She pats behind herself for the blankets, strewing the soft cotton atop them both. She guesses what his answer will be; she loves him for it, for the secrets he keeps.

“One more night,” he whispers, kissing her as softly as angel’s wings. “One more night like this, where you’re solely mine, then I’m telling everyone: I’m in love with this woman.”

“Until they’re sick of it?” 

“And, even then.”   



End file.
